


Evolutionary Nutrition of the Homo sapiens sapiens

by caramelbars



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Academy Era, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fake Science, Fluff, I Don't Even Know, Like real slow, Male-Female Friendship, Romance, SciOps Era, Season/Series 01 Spoilers, Season/Series 02 Spoilers, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Snippets, Unreliable Narrator, feels happen, gets kind of angsty, sort of, there's a lot of sandwiches, they eat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 06:32:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4090627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelbars/pseuds/caramelbars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had this peculiar habit of finishing each other's...</p><p>sandwiches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. chicken teriyaki

 

Twenty times. Jemma's newly-appointed lab partner had sighed twenty times in the last hour, and grumbled another seventeen. Her phone flashed 9:33pm; they had been working for seven hours straight. At this point, even her eyes seemed sweaty from wearing goggles all day, and, while she usually brushed off his behaviour as a side-effect of her presence in his ( _their_ ) lab, the twentieth-first time he sighed hit a nerve. Her pen clacked in the granite counter, echoed on the sterile walls.

"Doctor Fitz," she called with a tight smile, "apologies if my company is so grating, but I do need your cooperation if we are to successfully complete this assignment. The faster we finish, the faster I'll be out of your hair."

He looked up, wide-eyed. "I didn't-- I'm not--", he paused, sighed (twentieth-second time). Grumbling some more, he took off his own goggles to pinch the bridge of his nose, the other hand clutching his waist backwards. "I'm just hungry. We've been in here for decades."

Being quite honest, Jemma wasn't very hungry herself, having gobbled down a protein bar during her last bathroom break. And, since she was in a honesty streak, Jemma had to admit she didn't like Doctor Grumpitz any more than he seemed to (not) like her. Not since the third time he interrupted her exposition during Professor Vaughn's lecture, to prematurely share observations she had planned to make at a later point, with the single evil purpose of one-upping her in front of a qualified audience. Bit of an arrogant arse too; as far as she knew, he didn't attend any gatherings and barely talked to anyone outside class.

To her dismay, they had been partnered up in Chem Lab -- a pet name for Advanced Experimental Chemical Kinetics, a class only her and five other students had the necessary prerequisites to take that semester. It was just her luck that one of them had to be Dr. Fitz, currently the proud holder of the second place in her list of most-annoying people (the unbeatable first was her A-Levels Physics teacher, who told her, at twelve years old, she should be playing with dolls instead of trying to wrap her pretty little head around the hard sciences-- after she had corrected him twice that week alone, and he insisted on the mistake just to annoy her). One way or another, Jemma needed Dr. Fitz at his peak performance if she wanted the top spot in that class.

It crossed her mind then that her usual (and usually only) competition was currently sitting across from her, massaging his belly and scribbling notes in a beaten up notebook. He still had a couple pounds of baby fat to shed, a pink face, and a mop of light curls stressing his young age. Maybe she could afford to slack. A bit. A teeny tiny bit.

"Would you fancy a sandwich, then?" she heard herself say, surprised to find out maybe she actually meant it. "There's a Subway two blocks down from my dorm, and it is time we finished for the day."

The stare she got in return was half worried and half astonished. A soft flush went up his neck and ears, and he opened and closed his mouth to answer, but no "yes" came out.

Once the lack of an answer got too awkward, she started collecting her notes and stashing them inside her messenger bag. Her mistake, really, to expect he would shake the hand she was offering, since he, well, hated her. All of their interactions so far had been strained, she was almost embarrassed for letting herself get her hopes up. The scholarly world was tough, doubly so when you were too young and too smart for your own good, when everyone else was just as smart, watching for your littlest mishap, why would this time be any different?

"I- I understand why you don't want to go, of course." She kept her hands busy with samples, the tinkle of the glassware distracting from the high pitch of her voice. "I only offered since you seemed a bit-"

"No! Yes-- no, I mean," he shook his head quickly. "I would lo--like, I would very much like to go with you. If you insist. For sandwiches. I'd like that."

She was definitely embarrassed when she gawked back at him.

"Well, then!" she said, after a couple of seconds of not knowing what to say. "I'll shelf the remaining test tubes and we can go, is that alright?", which got her a stiff nod and grin. Not big on words, that one.

Eight minutes, three awkward bumps and some strict following of lab safety procedures later, Drs. Fitz and Simmons were out of the building, through the cement walkways and staircases, in the direction of her dorm. It was a fresh Thursday night, the early bite of winter already in the air, and a light breeze blew strands of her now loose hair across her face. A slightly long but not unpleasant stroll expected them. He walked close by her side, eyes darting around the early partiers, the late crammers, the pebbles by the sidewalk, the cement buildings. Anywhere but her, really.

She hugged her upper arms and stared down at her pair of red high-tops. It earned her a glance.

"Cold?"

"Bit chilly, but no--," she was interrupted by him twisting to reach the zipper on his backpack. After some rummaging, he extracted a navy blue wool cardigan and thrust it at her arms, mumbling, "Here". It was soft in her hands, smelling like musky aftershave and burnt metal.

She thanked him and draped it across her shoulders, warmer inside and out. They walked on in silence, but Jemma hadn't expected any different. She wasn't sure what to expect, really, since, one, she hadn't planned for him actually taking her up on it, and two, the social protocols for outings with your nemesis were a little bit fuzzy.

The sub shop wasn't too crowded, and quickly enough they assembled their footlongs and secured a nice window table. Dr. Fitz wasted no time digging into his meal, a huge number that looked like he had asked for every topping and extra available. A more careful analysis revealed an unexpected but well thought out blend of meats and spicy seasonings, perfect to ward off the evening chill.

"You look different," he started. At her questioning glance, he waved his sandwich in the general direction of her head. "Your hair, it's always up when we're in the lab. You look, uhm-- different. When it's down," he said, shoving in another bite. "Girly."

"Oh," she answered, tucking a lock of said hair behind her ear, and suddenly the fake wood tabletop seemed very interesting. "Basic lab safety, really." He wasn't supposed to notice these things, he barely looked her way at all. "You don't want α-keratins anywhere near, say, an alanine-glycine ten-layer copolymer nanofibril blend..." Her pointed nod and raised eyebrow should've told him everything, but she marched on out of habit, used to put her extensive knowledge in layman's terms for just about everyone she met.

"Happened to me once, the crystalline structure-"

"Probably denatured, the secondary helix wrapped around the filament--"

"-- quick to interact, the semi-amorphous regions collapsed on themselves --"

"-- everything all gooey--"

"-- had to start over, from square one."

"-- ruined your work."

Jemma stared at him, brow knitting in a place between confusion and suspicion. Dr. Fitz simply shrugged, eagerly going back to his sub. She was tearing the wrapping for her next bite when he said, mid-chew, "I read your paper, the silk one. Quite brilliant work."

She couldn't stop the smug grin breaking on her face, or her heart's little victory somersaults. "Oh," she repeated, and, to her credit, she managed to dial it down to politely pleased. "You think?"

He nodded quickly, chewing. "Yes, I can see a number of uses, have you tried--"

"Definitely!" It was enough to light up her eyes, her mind. "The countless applications attracted me to--"

"-- lightweight Kevlar, field agents wouldn't have to--"

"-- operatives need to be light on their feet--"

"-- adhesive properties that could be used--"

"-- weaponry doesn't need to be lethal--"

"-- silly 'shoot first ask questions later' policy--"

"-- capture and keep valuable assets--"

"-- large-scale manufacturing would be impossible with current--"

"-- very delicate, precise weaving--"

"-- would have to use actual spiders, beastly little things--"

"-- certainly useful to replicate their properties--"

"-- could build something to do it for you--"

"Oh," fell from her tongue before she knew, tinged in an entirely different tone. A strange sort of giddiness fluttered in her stomach, tingling up her throat, down her arms. "You could?"

"Of course." He cracked a small and smug grin of his own, munching on the last piece of his concoction.

The silence stretched. She watched, nipping on her lower lip, as his fingers cleaned the breadcrumbs with a napkin. This had been the longest conversation they ever had, and she already wanted to push for more. But he was her rival, wasn't he? Should she be fraternizing with the competition?

Her hesitation lasted enough of three seconds.

"Dr. Fitz, I--"

"Fitz," he interrupted, hands tucked in between his thighs, finally looking her in the eyes. "Call me Fitz." The tug at the corner of his lips could almost be considered a smile.

"Fitz," she tried. Tasted like spicy chicken and the world clicking into place. "I have been working on another project that might interest you," she teased, and he perked up instantly. "It's a crystalline nucleation process..."

 

_______________________________________________________

 

Jemma gasped when her phone chimed, tinkling bells calling her back to Earth.

They had been talking for the better part of an hour, it seemed. Her pulse raced the entire time, still raced, she wasn't sure it would ever stop. She was giddy from the acknowledgement, from the way he took her ideas, spun them, threw them right back, multifaceted, _better_. From his enthusiastic nods when she pitched in an improvement or five to his gadgets, from the unabashed welcome to her opinions, from the sparkle in his eyes when he shared his own concepts. From recognizing he was her, mirrored.

It had been hard to keep up with him, and that delighted her more than anything else. Jemma Simmons wasn't one to back down from a challenge. And this time, she had honest-to-god lost track of the hours, of counting, of everything else but science.

Science and Fitz.

He glanced at the device in her hands. "Am I-- Did you have any plans?" He cringed. "Sorry if I kept you."

"No, not at all! I just-- I needed to be heading to bed right now," she justified herself, an apology wanting to tumble from her lips. "Consistent bedtimes optimize your circadian rhythm, restorative sleep happens--"

Fitz looked at her for a second, then shook his head quickly. "Uhm, okay. Let's head off, then." He sounded as disappointed as she felt, but grinned easily, and even-- dare she say--- cheekily? "Can't have you losing sleep over me, can I?

She rolled her eyes, "Oh, _Fitz_!"

Fitz laughed in surprise, and she couldn't help but laugh too, realizing she had never heard that sound from him before, light and free as butterflies. It died down, then, and they stared just a little too long at each other, the universe stopping to a pregnant halt. What to make of this? Who were them, now? What would they be?

His eyes flicked briefly, breaking the spell. He dropped his gaze to her sandwich, lying cold on the table with barely two bites on it. He licked his lips. "Are you still eating that?"

 

 


	2. honey roasted turkey with cranberry sauce

 

 

Really, their partnership wouldn't have gotten this far if Fitz hadn't learned, early on, not to come between Simmons and her homework.

From his dorm bed, he watched her hunch over some inane stoichiometry exercises, sitting by his desk, haloed by the yellowish light from his table lamp. At least four colors of highlighters littered the already cramped desktop, and way too many post-it notes had been used as page markers for her books. He had learned to precise the second she found the correct answer, by the slight stiffening of her back and the quick twitch of her left leg-- ah, there it was again. Afterwards, Simmons would either yawn widely and stretch like a languid cat or massage a crick on her own neck, near a small bean-shaped freckle placed just under the collar of her blouse.

His own notebook had been lying forgotten in his lap for a while.

Fitz never figured out why exactly she kept hanging around. Except for his dashing good looks and genius level intellect, of course, but those had been around since forever and no one cared enough to take notice.

The first few times, Simmons had shown up at his dorm room asking for help with her mechanics worksheet, but soon enough it became clear to him she had no problem whatsoever with the workings of kinetic friction. She came back anyway, again and again, asking all the right questions and pushing all the right buttons and smiling all the right smiles, and, once she tired of keeping up the pretense of not knowing something, tea and Doctor Who marathons seemed like good enough excuses for her company.

Sometimes she dragged him away, to the lab or the library, or the Boiler Room in a couple of memorable occasions; sometimes she stayed, and they studied or watched tv shows or talked, or maybe didn't talk at all, the silence wasn't uncomfortable anymore. Sometimes she nagged, but he found out he didn't mind it all that much, even if he made a point of never leaving her without an appropriate retort. Sometimes he was quite certain it was because of the work-- he had to admit, the work they had been doing together was quite impressive, both the highlight of his career and the path to better opportunities, and he would be properly insane if he gave up on that. Sometimes he wondered if him showing off his smarts had actually worked, and mentally patted himself on the back.

A couple of semesters later, he still wasn't sure why she stuck around, no, but he had most definitely taken to her presence by his side. Or, at least, by his desk, where she sat every other night to do homework, despite the terrible lighting and rickety chair.

And she always brought crumpets, the good Scottish ones.

Fitz felt around the mattress for the snack, to find nothing more than an empty paper bag. He took a moment to scowl at the offending item, another to sigh in defeat. Then he closed his textbook with a sounding thump and stood up.

"I'm heading down to the cafeteria. Do you want me to grab you something?"

"Yes, please," she answered, scribbling a few more lines before twisting around in the chair to give him the puppy eyes. "Can I check your answer for problem number fifty-eight? I've reached the results in three different ways but-- I can't find an elegant enough solution!"

He grinned at the inherent Simmons-ness of the statement, and nodded in the direction of his bed. "Help yourself, it's in the blue notebook. I'll be right back."

"Thank you!" She beamed, standing up and padding in her socks across the small bedroom. The shuffling of paper and the soft creak of her plopping on his twin bed, getting herself comfortable between the pillows he kept, followed him in his way out.

It was late night, but the hallways were still bustling with extra-caffeinated scientists. To his dismay, the short walk to the cafeteria was made long by greetings from other cadets and random stops to answer questions and make small talk. Simmons and him had been building up quite a reputation around the Academy and even SciOps, one he felt quite deserved, since their work, specially their work together, had had a significant impact in both their fields so far. S.H.I.E.L.D had been impressed enough to imply they would be graduating early to take on more advanced (and classified) projects. Fitz knew their superiors were eager to see what they would come up with next, but, even as he expected to dazzle them, at this hour and with his growling stomach, he was mostly eager to see what the cafeteria was serving tonight.

The dining hall was just as busy as the hallways, meaning most of the good food was gone once he arrived. He glared at the almost empty pastry trays, and even considered trying the avocado-carrot ones before deciding they didn't suddenly become delicious just because he was hungry. He had standards to keep, after all.

Sighing, Fitz turned to the always dependable sandwich station. Not many options there either, but at least he could round up something resembling a dinner. He selected a couple of bread loaves that didn't look as beaten up as the rest, filling them with the appropriate amount of cheese (accurately described as "all the cheese they could hold and then some'') and salad (accurately described as "none; no, Simmons, not even the lettuce, I won't be eating any pasture.").

Once he got to the actual fillings, he crossed his arms and held up a finger to his lips, thinking. What would Simmons want? Spicy dishes were her usual choice, but maybe she wouldn't like thermogenics before bed. How hungry was she, how big of a sandwich would she like? Ate as little as a bird, that one, and for all he knew she used her biochemistry witchcraft to keep herself alive. The Fitz household, on the other hand, was very intent on proper sustenance; his mum would have some choice words for Simmons when they met… which would inevitably happen, sooner or later. He shuddered; the idea of his mum and Simmons meeting did some funny things to his stomach.

He settled for the honey roast turkey, adding some cranberry sauce for good measure -- the Academy kitchen surely knew how to make the Thanksgiving leftovers last.

The trek back was done in half the time, since he had successfully fended off almost everyone who tried to stop him from having some quality one-on-one time with his sandwich. He knocked on his own door twice before entering, the lack of an answer suggesting Simmons was too engrossed in her studying to bother replying.

"Simmons, I brought a--"

His mouth snapped shut on its own, and he spent a second taking in the scene. Simmons laid on her side on his bed, cuddling one of his pillows and a handful of her notes. The overhead light cast a warm glow over her hair, spun honey fanning out on the bedspread. Her face, serene and unguarded, with the smallest crease on the forehead even when relaxed, was like a secret he felt the slight bit guilty for overhearing, a secret not meant for him.

He shook himself off, then. Midterms must have caught up with her, Fitz reasoned. They had been taking a double course load, and she insisted on putting in extra lab hours, hell bent on making herself (and him) a good candidate for continued studies under Dr. Hall, their favorite professor. As if any sane person would take anyone other than her, really.

Unwilling to disturb her rest, Fitz stored Simmons' sandwich in the mini-fridge and sat quietly by the desk to eat his. Her notebook was still open, neat handwriting spilling across pages and pages of meticulously drawn equations. He drank in the notes in between bites, taking in the systematic organization and running commentary, same old steps twisting and turning in new ways to reach brilliant conclusions. Like a favorite book he had read over and over, but still surprised and amazed him every time. Jemma Simmons somehow made science even more beautiful.

His makeshift dinner was over too soon, so Fitz cleared out a corner of the wooden desktop to continue his own work. If once in a while he sneaked a glance to his bed, it was only to check if Simmons was doing okay, obviously, she was his guest after all. And if he got up at some point to drape a blanket over her, well, it was just common courtesy, and even selfishness, to avoid her catching a cold and pulling the brakes on their fast paced intellectual production.

A couple of hours later he, too, started yawning, and Simmons had barely moved -- except to reach for another pillow, because of course Simmons would be a pillow hogger. One look at her relaxed form, however, ruled out entirely the possibility of waking her up, meaning Fitz had to improvise a way to get a couple hours of sleep before his next class, in the morning -- courtesy of Simmons too.

After changing into his pajamas and brushing his teeth, he rounded up a pile of the plushest quilts from his wardrobe and stretched them on an empty length of floor, by the desk. A pillow and a blanket later, his bed for the night was ready. The floor wasn't even that hard, and the cleaning Simmons insisted they did by-weekly kept the carpet mostly free of crumbs and small living things.

Fitz closed his eyes and sighed deeply, settling better into the clean, warm blankets. It was quite comfortable, actually-- although he would never admit it to Simmons, intending to wind her up over the situation for the foreseeable future. He smirked to himself, thinking about how the corners of her mouth twitched down when she got angry, her nose crinkling, her freckles rearranging, her eyes turning into narrow slits. Maybe he would say she snored, too, just to watch her outraged denial.

But she didn't snore at all. If he concentrated, he could hear her breathing, light and slow, an ocean in the low tide. Her coconut/vanilla/formaldehyde smell would probably be all over his bed tomorrow, the way she cuddled and clutched his blankets. Should he bring her breakfast? He probably should, she would wake up famished after sleeping on an empty stomach. It was the nice thing to do, wasn't it? He could almost envision it, bringing her breakfast in bed with her favorite tea and scones, finger sandwiches, some juice, maybe-- maybe a flower? She would probably like some exotic rainforest number or something. He would place a tray with her favorite snacks on the bed, then mock her bed hair, touch her face to tuck it behind her ear. She would fake offense but smile brightly, sunlight streaming over the bed-- sunlight too warm for early morning-- goddammit sunlight--

He shut his eyes tightly, trying to block out the glare on his face. To avoid waking up for as long as he could, he turned on his side and clinged to the wispy remnants of sleep. One hand stretched out from under the covers to pat around for his mobile, flipping it open to check the--

"NINE A.M.???"

Simmons would kill him. Murder him and cut him into little cubes and put them into a meat grinder and stuff some scones and feed him to dogs, because that was exactly the kind of sadistic streak she had when left unwatched. She'd do it smiling, too. He could see an alarm had gone off on his phone at some point, but he didn't remember hearing it at all.

Fitz groaned, rubbing his face to ward off the sleepiness he had been trying so hard to keep. There had been a very nice dream, he was sure, and it involved food and sunshine, but the specifics were already gone, leaving him with leftover feelings of familiarity and contentment.

Grumbling some, he stood up to get ready for the day, forgoing the shower from the get go. Maybe he could still make to the second morning lecture. A note stuck to one of his bed pillows got his attention immediately.

 

_"Dear Fitz,_

_I'm sorry you had to sleep on the floor because of me! :( These very nice pillows are to blame.  
I didn't have the heart to wake you up, since you looked like you were enjoying your sleep. I did set up your alarm, however, so you are not late for class._

_See you soon, Jemma."_

 

He was about an hour late anyway. Her sandwich, he ate it for lunch, and it hadn't even gone bad.

 

 


	3. prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella

If someone were to walk in on Jemma in that moment, they would surely think she was having some sort of seizure, or doing a weird dance. Her head twitched to the left, back, left again, quicker-- it was useless. The stubborn lock of hair insisted on falling back on her face. Blowing it upwards didn't work, or sideways, or throwing her head back-- nothing. And now her nose was itching too.

Jemma scowled at the cause of her predicament, a whole piece of prosciutto currently sitting on her kitchen table. She worked her way through it with gloved hands and an electrical knife, although, at the moment, she felt more like stabbing it. It had sounded like a great idea earlier, when she first saw it on a flashy display at the cold cuts aisle. On sale, too! And she had promised herself to be more adventurous right? 

Too bad the first thing she took home was a pork's fat leg. She huffed (the lock of hair moved half an inch) and steeled herself to go back to her task, but her hands hand had barely touched the food when she heard the door unlock. Perfect timing. 

"Simmons, I brought--"

"In here, Fitz! Come quick!"

He rushed to the kitchen area at the sound of her voice, dropping his backpack and grocery bags near the table. His brow crisscrossed in a worried frown."Simmons? Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes-- open that drawer for me, please?" She pointed at the wooden cabinets with her chin and he was instantly on the move, shuffling through the drawers, "there's a blue hair--"

"Seriously?" he paused, picking the item between his thumb and forefinger and staring at it in antipathy, then turning the same sentiment at her, "seriously, Simmons? That's your emergency?"

"It's not!" she huffed again, craning her neck to offer him her curtain of loose hair. Fitz tsked, but snapped the tie around his wrist, moving to cradle her head in his hands. His body was a solid warmth at her back, the smell of clean laundry enveloped her senses. "Don't forget the fringe, yes?" She sighed. 

He scoffed, and she could practically hear the eyeroll. His fingers combed lightly through her scalp, raising the fine strands at the nape of her neck into goosebumps. With the practiced ease of hands used to deal with fine circuitry, he quickly had her hair twisted in a not-tight-but-tight-enough bun, held together by the blue hair tie. 

"Done," he said, inching forward to peek over her shoulder, "what have you got here?"

"The emergency on which I called you," she answered, turning on the knife to finish cutting the meat into fine pieces, a much simpler work without any hair on her face. "I bought too much of this, now we must eat it."

"What is 'this'?" Fitz stepped away from her, flopping in a chair on the other side of the small table. "It's not another dead animal part, is it, Simmons?" He asked, eyeing the meat warily, then reaching for a slice and almost earning himself a slap on the wrist (he stopped at her glare.)

"That's precisely what it is! A piece of prosciutto-- similar to ham, but better," she grinned down at him. "How do you feel about a sandwich?"

He grinned back, because the Fitz she cherished would never say no to food. It was as much of a part of him as his engineering degrees, and she secretly enjoyed indulging him sometimes. "I bought baguettes, and that pomegranate juice you like," he said, already taking the contents out of the plastic bags and spreading them on the table. "I wasn't sure about the cheese, so I brought three different kinds."

Jemma hummed appreciatively. "These are perfect, let's use the buffalo mozzarella-- the white one," she pointed, and Fitz teared up the package, dumping the little balls into a bowl. Then he settled back in the chair to follow her work, propping an elbow on the table to hold his head. It pleased Jemma they managed to keep the same easy dynamic outside the lab. They had crossed the line from partners to friends early on, years before, and her only regret was that it hadn't happened even sooner. 

She wanted to say she didn't remember life without Fitz. It seemed like so long ago, and she was so young and confused and so eager to succeed, but she remembered it perfectly: it felt like holding your breath, and only realizing it once your chest is burning and fresh air is flowing into your lungs again. He filled a place in her she didn't know was empty, a place quiet and constant and unnamed and unique, a place she didn't dare touch or speculate about. It was enough knowing it was there; knowing _he_ was there. 

"So," he started when she was cutting the bread into smaller sections, then the cheese, "how was your date? Dr. Paveel?" Fitz had tried for nonchalant, but achieved mostly crabby, as he tended to when talking about these matters. He wasn't as comfortable with interpersonal relationships as she was. 

"It's Dr. Patel, Fitz. You know that," she frowned, handling the knife with a bit more strength than was strictly necessary. "I-- cancelled it."

"Oh," his face twitched, she guessed he was trying to convey sympathy. "What happened?" 

"I'm--," she started answering, but, to be honest, she wasn't that sure herself. "He has a fascinating facial bone structure, yes, and is very intelligent and polite, but--" Jemma picked a couple of the meatiest slices and folded them over the cheese, wishing a good enough sandwich would solve all her troubles. "I don't know, Fitz," she sighed. "Maybe I'm not meant for this. The relationship thing."

Fitz licked his lips and stared at her oddly for a second. Then he shifted his weight in the chair, eyes back to her hands. "He was a bore anyway," he mumbled. The dim dusk lighting hit his cheekbones at an angle, making his face thinner, gaunter. She chuckled, a hollow sound, "that he was."

He smiled quietly, and just like that it was done. They didn't need words, she didn't need to say more for him to understand. It was simple, the two of them, and she was grateful for it. Jemma closed the sandwich and took a bite.

"Hmm," she considered. Fitz perked up. "Something is missing," she said, offering him the other half. 

His bite was two times the size of hers, but still he chewed thoughtfully, nodding and humming in delight. "Tastes wonderful already. Do you have any ketchup?"

"Ket-- frankly, Fitz," she shook her head, turning to poke around in the fridge. "Oh, I know just the thing. It's a recipe I tried-- here!" She retrieved a small glass jar, hermetically sealed, with the pesto aioli she had made the day before, as a dressing to the pasta she planned to serve on the dinner she had cancelled. Jemma sighed, hoping it hadn't gone bad. 

Fitz polished the rest of the first sandwich the way it was, so she started fixing up another, spreading a thin layer of aioli on one side of the open baguette, covering with a generous amount of prosciutto, and finishing with a thick blanket of cheese. Another few seconds on the microwave were enough to soften the mozzarella, and for the dough to soak in the basil fragrance.

It was just hot enough to smart her fingers on the way out. Jemma cut the piece in halves and and offered it to him, "here, try this."

"If you insist," he accepted, taking a quick bite. "Hmm…" he considered, then his eyes widened as he nodded multiple times, slowly, then quickly. "Hmm!"

"Leo Fitz, are you moaning?" She teased, the faces he pulled chasing away the last remnants of her somber mood. "Do you need a room?"

"No," he said around another mouthful, pointing to the morsel of bread he held, "I only need another one of these." He chewed and swallowed at her pointed look, knowing she'd eventually chastise him on talking with a full mouth. Then he looked up with eager, begging eyes, "maybe another three? It's honestly the best sandwich I've ever had, Simmons." 

"Well, there is enough prosciutto…" she wondered, studying the remaining baguettes and deciding to fill a plate with smaller-sized subs. It was much more than she would normally eat, but Fitz would be happy to take eventual leftovers with him. "Will you set the coffee table while I finish these?"

Dinner on the living room meant movie marathons. Meant picking apart fake science, laughing at impossible physics, discussing how to make it possible, accidentally coming up with ideas for new projects, some of which even got made at some point. Meant sitting side-by-side on the floor because they were grown-ups who felt like sitting on the floor, and maybe and a foot rub if she got lucky. Meant staying up late because they were too lazy to clean up and make it to the bed, waking up with sore backs after falling asleep all over each other with full bellies, full hearts. 

"Yes!" Fitz bounced when he got up, his smile all teeth, and something swirled behind her navel. He rounded the table again and caught her in a sideways hug, tucking his head in the curve of her neck, his hair tickling her cheek. The soldering iron smell filled her nostrils, familiar and pungent. "Thank you, Simmons," he squeezed her around the waist, "you are the best."

Jemma patted his forearm and grinned despite herself, affecting smugness to hide it, "I am indeed! You'll do well to remember it."

Fitz disentangled himself then, going to the cabinets at her back for plates and napkins, then sidestepping her to unload them on the coffee table, in front of the tv. Her mind was only partially in what her hands did, preferring to watch him tidy up her living room. He gathered the copies of _Annual Review of Biochemistry_ and _Genetics_ spread around the couch and arranged them on a neat pile on her desk, leaving _Science_ fondly on the top-- either because it was her favorite or because they had published on it only last month. He shuffled around her small apartment, adjusting furniture and turning on the telly, then throwing some of the couch cushions on the floor for sitting purposes. They would probably end up there sooner or later, no need to pretend otherwise. 

It had gotten dark quickly. The flickering lights from nearby buildings barely illuminated the room, suspending it in twilight, a bubble where time passed too slowly to be of notice. She finished putting the cooking utensils away and took the five steps needed to reach the living room, setting the sandwich tray down on the coffee table. Toeing off her shoes, she sat on the floor and stretched her legs under the table, back slouching against the couch, the rug scratchy under her feet. 

Fitz was by her side soon enough, offering her a glass of pomegranate juice and filling another for himself. The blue glow from the tv highlighted his profile, his nose, his partially open lips, his lashes. Smoke-like feelings whispered around her chest, never tangible enough to be heard, caught, diced, analyzed. He smiled, then, raising his glass for a toast. "Cheers."

She accepted hers, clinking them together. "Cheers." The juice was cold, tangy and sweet at the back of her tongue. 

"Bet this is better than your date."

It was. She would never tell him that.


	4. grilled cheese

  
The sight of his bed, maybe too large in the middle of his studio apartment, was always a welcome sight. In that moment it was even more welcome, since everything he wanted was to sink into his soft mattress and sleep off the hangover he'd most likely feel in the morning.

Simmons, however, had other ideas.

While he fumbled with the door locks (thankfully they were already inside), she placed the three-quarters-empty bottle of scotch in the narrow kitchen counter and went to rummage around his kitchen for anything edible, in a quest to help her body process the unbelievable amounts of alcohol she had just consumed (" _Carbohydrates, Fitz, the secret is in the carbohydrates._ "). It should be illegal for someone so tiny to drink that much - in some countries, it probably was. 

"There's almost nothing in your fridge!"

There was, in fact, almost nothing in his fridge. They had finished what was left of his food earlier in the day, while packing up the last of his possessions to be sent into storage. The entire place had been left pretty empty, stripped to bare walls, a tad eerie with the long shadows and the late-night chill. Only his sensitive equipment was still there, neatly placed in metal cases, to be personally taken to the SHIELD 6-1-6. They could eat out tomorrow, he figured, or order some takeout, whichever felt more convenient.

And he was already missing his bed. He flopped face-down on the cushy mattress, making snow angels in the duvet, lack of snow notwithstanding. 

"There's some jizz," _no, wait,_ he blinked, _that sounded wrong_. He tried again, "cheese. And bread."

"You can't sleep now, Fitz," came the sharp order from across the room. "Eat something first." 

Fitz usually wasn't one to say no to food, but he was determined to enjoy a nap first. Simmons, though, Simmons could read minds. He had been convinced of it since their second-to-last year at the Academy, after an unfortunate incident with chloroform and gummi bears, and had been extra careful not to think anything untoward around her since then. 

"Fitz!" A ball made of bubble wrap and adhesive tape hit the back of his head. Fitz wanted to be mad at her for having a perfect aim, even when one was as drunk as they were, but he was mostly impressed, and, since being impressed by Jemma Simmons was a feeling he was quite used to, he settled for that. His response came in the form of a grunt, and he turned right-side-up to stare at the ceiling, the mattress shifting around him to better accommodate his weight. 

He would definitely miss the bed. 

Fitz sighed, using all his remaining willpower to sit up from the warm covers. Simmons puttered about in the kitchen, under the only light in the room, leaving a last mark on every nook and corner. The sizzling of a frying pan and the smell of hot butter filled the space, and something about the way she looked right at home there pulled at his heartstrings. He couldn't believe they were moving.

"I can't believe we are moving."

The problem with alcohol consumption was the lack of a filter between his brain and his gobbler. Simmons looked up, with soft eyes and a small but excited smile.

"Sounds quite daunting, doesn't it? A mobile command station?"

It did, but that wasn't exactly his concern. "Yeah," he mumbled.

"You're not quitting at the last minute, are you, Fitz? You wouldn't dare. It's such a fantastic opportunity for discovery," she argued, flipping bread with a spatula, "as scientists, we have a duty to step out of our comfort zones, investigate the unknown, push the boundaries."

Fitz wasn't sure what to answer. He quite enjoyed the boundaries. He liked the familiar, craved it, took pleasure in following the patterns of the life he built for himself. His bed, his home, his favorite takeout places, his couch at the break room, his lab. His lab partner. It took a long time and many uncomfortable trials to find perfect parameters when new variables appeared around him, and the thought of having to do it all over again left him tetchy. Would there even be takeout places if he was living on a plane? Where would they even park?

He huffed, leaning back on his elbows, staring at the ceiling cracks. He would probably miss them too. He hoped there were no cracks in the airplane, on the ceiling or anywhere else.

The smell of grilled cheese crossed the room, along with Simmons' light steps on bare feet. Heels weren't her favorite footwear, not very practical when you worked standing up, and she had ditched hers near the door as soon as they got in. She set the plate on top of an overturned, empty cardboard box, and sat by his side with a quiet oof, legs dangling from the bed. Simmons had curled her hair for their send-off party and it fell in soft waves around her face, and her eyes looked just bright enough, her cheeks flushed just enough to betray her inebriated state. The resulting churning near his belly was very quickly attributed to liquor-induced nausea. 

"It's gonna be fun, Fitz, you'll see," she pleaded, offering him the universe and what she deemed to be a decent enough grilled cheese pan-fried sandwich. "You and me together, in a flying lab, changing the world as we go? Sherlock and Watson? Doctor and companion? The stuff of legends." 

He wanted to say no. His aversion to change spoke volumes in his chest, but Simmons looked at him that way, small and eager and unguarded and _lost_ , and his heart constricted to the size of an ant and all his neurons fired at the same time, and, really, he'd get to play in a flying lab with the best of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s tech at his disposal, at the literal edge of discovery. What more could he possibly want?

"But I'm the Doctor," he conceded, instead, and Simmons giggled. Maybe it made him a little bit dizzy, but he was probably just drunk and hungry. He took a bite of the sandwich then, the cheese got stuck in his teeth but melted on his tongue, the bread was the perfect amount of crispy, and his stomach twisted in satisfaction.

"No, No. I'm a Doctor _Doctor,_ " she remembered, leaning against him to poke his upper arm and draw his attention back to her. " _You_ are the companion."

"Am not," he stated around a mouthful, indignation evident in his tone. "You cannot out-PhD me here, Simmons. I'm veto-ing it a hundred percent." 

Simmons huffed and flopped down on the bed, her dress riding up to her mid-thigh and granting him a view of what could only be a mile of leg. He peeled his eyes off from the unusual sight to slowly chew on his sandwich, thinking back to the Simmons from the lab, her ponytails and sensible shoes and lab coats, and the Fitz by her side, the only life he knew, when the idea hit him.

"The companion could be a monkey."

"They wouldn't let us have a monkey in the aircraft." Simmons scowled from where she was almost asleep, and he hoped it was disappointment he heard in her voice. "But-- a _fishtank,_ " she breathed, the sparkle back in her eyes. "We'd collect colorful species from all over the world! Fitz!"

The smile on her face was worth at least ten monkeys, he thought, and when she tugged on his sleeve for him to lie down next to her, he went willingly.

"A fishtank, yes," he agreed, fishtanks were a sight for sore eyes with their little tropical fish. "But a monkey too, a trained Capuchin to fetch us equipment and reach small spaces and play a tiny fiddle," he said to the ceiling with a furrowed brow, deciding it was most definitely a fantastic idea that he'd push to his superiors as soon as he found an opening. 

Simmons seemed to be in another place entirely, though, because she tugged some more until he angled his head to look at her, where she had turned to lie on her side. Her hand trailed down his arm, burning every cell on its wake, as if he'd combust from inside out, until she found his hand and intertwined their fingers together. She smiled quietly, and her dilated pupils sucked his breath like a drain, like a black hole. 

"It wouldn't be half as fun if my best friend wasn't there." 

He smiled back and squeezed her hand, his greasy digits slipping around her oh-so-soft ones. "Yeah," he agreed, because it shouldn't matter where they were, at the Academy or SciOps or anywhere in the sky in their new mobile home, because home, well, home was wherever the two of them were together, wherever he could stanch that permanently growing, unyielding ache in his gut. "But I'm not giving up on the monkey."


	5. roast beef and sriracha

Fitz was terrible at faking sleep. At faking anything, really. His faking abilities were only marginally better than hers, or so she had chosen to believe, and she knew immediately he was awake once she entered the room. His overhead light was still on, and he hadn't even changed his clothes-- not that they had many clothes to change to anymore. 

"Fitz?"

No response. Jemma closed the door quietly and crossed the surprisingly large motel room to the farthest bed, where he was laying still, facing away from the door. The mattress creaked with her weight when she sat, when she rested a hand on his shoulder. He quickly secured it in place with his own, as if she would vanish into thin air at any moment. So many solid, permanent things had evaporated lately, it was never too much to make sure, never enough. 

"You didn't come out to dinner." 

"What if they implanted something in his brain?" He asked, voice breaking in the middle, "a small chip with neurotransmitters, I remember at the Academy--"

"Fitz," her grip tightened, and she could feel the muscle twitch under the fabric of his button-down. He sighed.

"He's our _friend_."

Her teeth clenched, anger flaring inside her again. Fitz didn't deserve this. Fitz didn't deserve this, Skye didn't deserve this, Jemma-- Jemma didn't care if she deserved it or not, she only cared to punch the bastard's finely chiseled jaw next time she saw him. _He had never been their friend_ , she wanted to say. Friends didn't backstab friends, didn't steal their research for nefarious purposes, didn't take advantage of their kindness, didn't earn their trust to tap-dance all over it, she wanted to say. 

"I know," she said instead. Releasing his arm, she grabbed the reason for her visit and presented to him with a flourish, "I made you a sandwich."

It got his attention, finally. 

"Prosciutto?"

"Roast beef," she answered, waving the baguette near his nose. "Agent Coulson is rationing the food budget, I had to make do with dinner leftovers and sauce from the vending machine--"

"I don't want it," he turned back to stare at the wall.

"Fitz--"

"Why don't you give it to _Agent Triplett_ ," he drawled, dripping with derision.

" _Fitz_!" She was used to her friend's hungry crankiness, and she knew he wasn't dealing well with Ward's betrayal and the Hydra uprising, but _this_ \-- this was unacceptable. Jemma bounced away from the bed, spine rigid as she bristled at him, "neither Agent Triplett nor I deserve this kind of treatment. I'll be leaving now, please come find me when you decide to stop behaving like a petulant _child_."

"Jemma, Jem--" he scrambled to reach her, managing to catch her arm on the downswing, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, alright? I didn't mean it."

It did little to appease her anger, but, again, anger was almost a default state of being these days. Anger and worry and terror and uncertainty, a dark roulette where nobody ever won. 

Fitz tugged her down when she went too long without answering, and she acquiesced. They sat side by his side, backs against the headboard, legs stretched forward, the length of his body a welcome presence beside hers. The room wanted to be cozy with its rich wood colors and patterned curtains, but it mostly felt stuffy and stifling to her, a symbol of everything they had lost.

As if she needed a reminder.

"You need to stop this nonsense. Agent Triplett is doing everything he can to help S.H.I.E.L.D., he can be trusted. We need every willing agent."

"I know. I'm sorry," Fitz repeated, pulling at a hole in the moth-eaten bedspread. 

Part of it was her fault, as Fitz had spitefully pointed out what seemed like a lifetime ago. Her eagerness for adventure had dragged them into this mess. On her defense, it might even have saved their lives-- a couple of reports said their last station had been overtaken by Hydra sleepers in less than three hours, the entire facility going up in toxic flames. Still, she barely needed to scratch the surface to blame herself for putting them through this ordeal.

"I'm sorry too," she whispered, deflating. Jemma needed to follow her own advice. It wasn't the time for petty squabbles, much less with her best, closest, oldest friend, her only constant in this life of madness. His loyalty was difficult but worth it, his friendship a hard earned treasure, rare and precious. One Ward had broken, one she intended to keep above everything else. _I don't know what I would do_ , he had said earlier by the pool, and it echoed in her mind, resonating in the chambers of her chest. 

She caught his hand in hers, resting both of them on her lap. He watched them intently for a million years, a few seconds, a heartbeat, caressed them softly with the pad of his thumb. 

"At least we still have each other," she whispered, drinking in their intertwined fingers, pale against the navy blue of their jeans. If she wasn't as scared of the future as she should be, it was because the warmth of his palm reassured more than the firepower of a hundred men. But he trained his eyes on her, then, piercing blue, fervor and fear and the edge of a precipice, and her own heart went out to him, swelling with affection, wanting to protect and reassure and drive his worries away. 

"Fitz, I--"

"Jemma, I need to say--"

"No, I need you to listen to me first," and her tone allowed no argument. "I know many things have changed lately, but we haven't. We're still us. We're partners, friends, no matter what. That will never change, right?" 

Together, they could face anything, do anything, and this belief was her rock during the storm, her touchstone in this new, impossible life. Fitz, however, had his mouth set in a thin line, looking as if he had been stabbed and her words had only twisted the knife. Jemma squeezed his hand, tugging him back from whatever dark place he had gone, asking him what was wrong without really asking, but his only reaction was to make himself smaller, to further hide from her. Her chest cracked like glass, the shards spilling in her veins.

"Right?" she squeezed again, voice wavering. Wasn't that enough for him? Wasn't she enough? 

His eyes on hers were fathomless pits, cold distant galaxies, his breaths so close they prickled her face. He glanced at her lips and her heart staggered out of sync, and she had to force the words out.

"Right, Fitz?"

The more she tried to reach out, the more she felt him spiraling from her grasp. The apple of his throat bobbed, up and down, the seconds ticking away, and she was almost giving up when he exhaled, shoulders sagging. "Yeah," he mumbled, breaking away from her gaze, breaking something inside her, "yeah."

He freed his hand and picked up the sandwich, and she let out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding. It wasn't okay, and it was barely enough, but it would have to do for the time being. "What was it, that you wanted to say?"

"Nothing, nothing important." He shook his head slowly and almost smiled, tight and empty, voice rough. "Roast beef, then. What's in the sauce?"


	6. bolognese

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I haven't abandoned this fic, but I'm a slow and awkward writer who hit a wrong note in a chapter, and took a long breather and a longer time to try and make it right. Then season 3 happened and FEELS. Might take a couple more weeks to really wrap everything up, I just wanted to post this to feel like I'm actually doing something?
> 
> Anyway, I'm thrilled about the great response I received, you're all sugar sprinkled cupcakes, thank you so so much!

When Jemma suggested spagbol for dinner, he hadn't expected a suit, a _maitre'd_ , or _antipasti_. Yet, here he was, wearing the first, being waited on by the second and reading about the third in a fancy _entrées_ section of the even fancier menu. 

When Jemma suggested spagbol for dinner, he was most definitely sick from bed rest, and had promptly agreed, even if, " _yes, Fitz, the wheelchair is mandatory. Doctor's orders._ " He had tried to tell her his legs were perfectly fine, he could walk the ten feet to the table and for the millionth time, " _you're not a medical doctor, Simmons, and you don't have to push it for me, it's entirely automated, could you please--_ "

It was hard to argue, though, when his tongue would curl over the wrong vowels and half the words slipped away half-made, when all of his brilliant ideas were just out of reach, when Jemma pretended her eyes weren't puffy from crying and that he could finish her thoughts the way he used to. 

Jemma had suggested spagbol for dinner, but he couldn't focus on the white-cursive-on-red from which he was supposed to pick his meal, because the letters kept dancing on the page. Fitz shut his eyes tightly and opened them again, breathed deeply to take in the smell wafting from the kitchens, breath in, breath out, and somehow managed to convey to Jemma she could pick whatever she liked. She _was_ paying, after all. 

"Let's go with our original choice, shall we?" She smiled and squeezed his shoulder, and his heart warmed when, one, two, five seconds later, her hand still didn't move. The delicate weight anchored him, small and soft and sure, and Fitz held it in place with his own hand, resisting the urge to cuddle it against his neck, to rub his cheek on her knuckles, to never let go. 

It was almost enough to distract him from the too polite smiles and the entire evening crowd sizing him up with pity or discomfort or disgust. His fingers tapped an erratic beat on the armrest, and he scowled at a suited mustache two tables away, willing down the flush working its way up his face. 

Jemma pointed at something or other on the page or commented on the decor or blabbed about whatever documentary was on tv last night, and Fitz frowned, scratching an irritating itch at the back of his bad hand, still in a cast. Her attempts at small talk were at the same time endearing and irritatingly condescending, and specially frustrating when he couldn't properly answer back. 

The food took about three centuries to arrive. When it finally did, waves of relief came from Simmons, who then had an excuse to keep her mouth otherwise occupied. He would've been annoyed if he hadn't felt the same himself. His stomach plunged to his feet, however, when said food turned out to be his main concern. 

The spaghetti bolognese looked and smelled wonderful, and his stomach approved with a hearty growl-- but his fine-motor skills disagreed. Five tries later, the movement of swirling the pasta around a fork eluded him, and trying to take them to his mouth resulted in a red heap landing in his lap. 

"Oh, Fitz-- here, let me," Jemma dove in to take his fork, and he pulled away as if her skin could shock. He could at least feed himself, thank you very much, and wouldn't stoop so low as to have the woman he lo-- deeply admired feed him, in any context other than a proper date. Else she would also want to change his diapers and wipe his arse-- and something revolting rose up his throat at the thought he had spent a week in a coma, and a month being barely conscious, and she probably had already done that. _Multiple times._

It was more humiliating than he could possibly imagine. 

She frowned and tried again, and he swatted her hand away, face matching the tomato sauce on his plate. "Jem- _ma_!" _I'm not an infant, stop treating me like one_ , he wanted to say, but his mouth and brain refused to connect. The food seemed less appetizing by the second, the few strands he caught insisting in slipping back to the plate, his insides aching from embarrassment more than hunger. Jemma, at least, looked chastised enough to stop trying to help. 

_Don't worry_ , she repeated, _it takes time_ , she said, _we'll fix you_ , she insisted, but his sweaty hands couldn't get a grip on the cutlery even if he tried and tried and tried again. The conversation muffled around him and the walls seemed to close in, the indoor heating stifling inside the prickly suit, the tie Jemma had so carefully laced around his neck feeling more and more like a noose. He couldn't concentrate, though, he could barely remember the steps to what he was doing because Jemma kept nattering away in her fake cheery tone, and he didn't or couldn't or wouldn't understand them, and he wished she'd just-- she'd just--

"STOP!," and his hands were up, gripping the shorn hair at the nape of his neck, and his plate was shattering on the ground, the stares of the patrons burning his face. "Stop, pl-please, stop," he panted. The restaurant fell into a silence that echoed inside his brain, and there were a million shiny white pieces on the floor, klutzy Fitz, and he needed to get out, get out right now, because porcelain doesn't ever mend, right, not really, the pieces never fit back together again. 

His rush to be on his feet fought his barely responsive limbs, and he knocked down what was left of the fine silverware, glass crashing and spilling red on the checkered tablecloth, wine dripping to a pool on the carpet. But he was up, he was up and his knees buckled, and he would show these people he wasn't broken, he was _fine_ , he didn't need a _bloody wheelchair_. 

Jemma squeaked, hurrying to hold him up as he stumbled away from the table, on his way to the nearest balcony. "What are you trying to do, Fitz?" She scolded in a whisper, as if they hadn't already caught the attention of the entire venue, even as she draped his arm over her shoulders, even as he tried to shake her off. He focused on putting a foot in front of the other, the archway a mile away. 

Step and step and another step, until they were outdoors. The effort was enough to deflate the anger out of him.

"Don't get too close to the edge," Jemma warned, eyeing the two-floor drop warily, and he almost scoffed over the unnecessary concern. He held onto her anyway as they stood together, breathing in deeply, reveling in the comfort of her coconut scent. Daft of her to fear him falling from the balcony, when he had taken a plunge much worse and more bittersweet, a long, long time ago. 

"Wait for me a bit, please," she said as she lowered him to a crafted wood bench. Fitz sat down willingly, relieved to give his sore legs some rest. Looking up, he could see the stars above, pinprickles of light fighting for space over the city smog.

His shoulders relaxed on their own, when the quiet finally reached him, the cool air hitting his face. Deep, deep breaths, until his mind was clear, the ghost of her touch focusing his thoughts. Fitz closed his eyes and tried to imagine another world, a reality where Fitz and Simmons going out for Italian meant more than her taking pity on him-- but the image of them laughing over red wine felt more like a punch to the gut. How could Jemma have it in her to retribute his ill-advised feelings, when he dumped them over her in a bout of near-death bravado, then had the gall to stay alive? When she dedicated every waking moment to his well-being and he went out to make an arse of his invalid self? When he was now so obviously beneath her, in every which way?

Jemma cleared her throat, startling him out of his misery, and presented him a bundle wrapped in a linen napkin. The spaghetti, sopping in sauce, had been heated and used to stuff a small baguette, and it smelled like the best thing he would ever eat. His stomach swooped down again, appreciation swelling inside him, wetting his eyes in apologetic almost-tears. Jemma sat down by his side and smiled quietly as he took a bite of the sandwich, so much easier than forks and knives and so, so much more than words. She would know what he meant, she always did. 

"I know it's hard for you, Fitz," she started as he chewed, pushing her hair behind her ear, "but the brain is a truly remarkable organ. Yours more than anyone else's, I'm sure. It's difficult to agree with me right now, but you'll make a full recovery. I believe in _you_ , Fitz."

He smiled back, nodding his agreement. It wasn't. It wasn't difficult at all, not when when she spoke with such fervor, such hope. Not when her eyes shone like a supernova and his own heart fused inside his chest, not when he was stuck in this eternal loop of falling for her all over again, every day. 

It was easy to decide then. Yes, he'd recover. He'd make himself whole once more. If he would never be worthy of her love, he'd make sure to be worthy, at least, of her faith.

**Author's Note:**

> While I intended this as a "five-times+1 drabbles of crack-y fluff" (it's a legit genre), it sort of... extended itself into a bunch of short non-sequential chapters? I'm so sorry.
> 
> English eludes me most of the time, please forgive my crimes against your language and feel free to point out any mistakes. The same about the weird science, I wikipedia'd my way through the technobabble. Thank you so much for reading, I'd love to hear your thoughts! :)


End file.
